


Sherlock's Big Easter Adventure

by okapi



Series: Holiday Tentacle!lock [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Beatrix Potter - Freeform, Candy, Crack, Easter, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock Has Tentacles, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:10:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6274753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Updated for 2017</b>. Sherlock overdoes on Beatrix Potter stories. Fluffy, candy-coated Easter tentacle crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Easter 2016

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indirectly inspired by [Bejewelled tentacles hung by the chimney with care](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1046793) by [HiddenLacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna). There are plans for a Christmas fic directly referencing that work.
> 
> References the children’s book [_Pete the Cat: Big Easter Adventure ___](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rV_27fBnYZM)by Kimberly and James Dean and Easter candy:[PEEPS](https://www.marshmallowpeeps.com/); Jelly Belly [jellybeans](http://www.jellybelly.com/) (kids and BeanBoozled mixes); Cadbury Creme Eggs; and the [Chocolatician](https://www.facebook.com/chocolatician/?fref=nf) Benedict Cumberbatch chocolate Easter bunny.

Sherlock beckoned. John moved closer.

“Am I a monster, John?”

“Good Lord, Sherlock! I thought we resolved this at Christmas!”

A head appeared between them.

“As much as I enjoy watching you two whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ears, this is a crime scene, lads. _My_ crime scene. Give me everything you got, Sherlock; then go and have your pillow talk somewhere else.”

Sherlock’s lip curled into a snarl. Then he whipped around, coattails flaring, and launched into a rapid-fire address.

“It was the woman’s husband. Obvious. He’s an amateur orchidist. Two complaints filed by the neighbours about the smell and the flies. Twice investigated and ruled to be an abundance of _Satyrium pumilum_ , a South African orchid. Its scent mimics carrion in order to attract the flesh-flies, its main pollinators. Growing foul-smelling flowers might reduce the number of successful dinner parties, but it is not, in fact, illegal. Of course, the third time, it wasn’t the flowers, it was the smell of his wife’s corpse, but the local authorities, naturally, did not follow up. A case of the boy who cried wolf, or in this case, the old lady next-door who cried rotting flesh. An old lady who, by the way, makes a very fine cup of tea. Got her scone recipe for Mrs. Hudson. Open-and-shut domestic. Not worth my time, except perhaps, I would like a cutting of—“

“No,” said John firmly. “No rotting flesh flowers in the flat!”

“ _Saty_ —what?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock grabbed John’s pen and pad of paper and scribbled. He tore a page and slapped to Lestrade’s chest.

“ _Satyrim pumilum._ Good day!”

* * *

“If I’m not a monster, then why do you insist on offering me sacrifices?”

“Excuse me?”

“That bundle on the kitchen table, trussed and tied with ribbon like a virgin at the entrance to the Minotaur’s maze.”

John snorted. “Stamford’s idea of a joke. His great aunt in America sent him that Easter basket. He’s on a low-carb diet so he left it on our doorstep and scurried away like a no-bread thief in the night.”

“It’s pink.”

“Yeah, his aunt’s getting a bit potty in her old age. Thinks Stamford’s a six year old girl.”

“Well, she might be forgiven on that point.”

“The man can’t help his laugh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock exited the taxi and waited for John at the front door. “There is a thin tome of literature in the basket.”

“Yeah, Pete the Cat. Cute, no?”

They climbed the stairs.

“If he, this _Pete_ , who has only four limbs can have a big Easter adventure, cannot _Sherlock Holmes_ , who has…”

“Three times as many,” said John. “Counting arms and legs.”

“…have an even bigger Easter adventure?! Or is that beyond my kind?! The monsters of the world.” He sniffed.

“Don’t get melancholy and philosophic, Sherlock. There’s candy!”

* * *

Sherlock was stretched along the length of the sofa. The contents of the Easter basket were spilled on the coffee table between him and John, who sat in his armchair.

“Watermelon.”

“Correct!”

Sherlock huffed. “Child’s play.” His dismissive wave and nonchalant tone, however, were belied by four tentacles wriggling excitedly through finely-tailored, almost-invisible slits in one side of his dressing gown.

“Well, it is called a kid’s mix,” said John. “How about this one?” He placed a white and yellow speckled jellybean in the coiled tip of Sherlock’s longest, thinnest, and most dexterous tentacle.

Sherlock popped the sweet in his mouth and chewed. Then he closed his eyes and grimaced.

“Buttered Popcorn. John, why—?”

“Americans. Oh, hello! This one is Strawberry Jam!” John chewed. “Oh, that’s good. That’s my favourite.”

“I like the red and blue speckled one.”

“Tutti-frutti. Let’s see, what else. Oh, wait. Hee, hee! New game. Let’s see if you can deduce this flavour. I’ll even let you look at it.”

Sherlock plucked the black jellybean from John’s fingers and held it in front of his face.

“Liquorice. Obviously.”

“Try it.”

“UGH!” Sherlock sat up with a look of horror on his face.

John giggled. “Skunk Spray!”

“WHY?!”

“It’s the whole point! Two jellybeans, the same colour, one is something like Coconut or Peach or Strawberry-Banana and the other is Baby Wipes or Vomit or Dead Fish. Surprise! Sort of a benign, confectionary version of the killer cabbie pill scheme. I think I’ll save it for Lestrade.” He giggled and set the packet aside. “Here, more Tutti-Frutti. And I promise it’s not Stinky Socks!”

Sherlock scowled, but took the jellybean and sniffed it. “Jellybeans are my favourite, John.”

“Mine, too, and they are certainly less intimidating than this curiosity.” John held up a bright yellow chick with a pair of black oval eyes. “Peeps. Marshmallow chicks.”    

“I don’t like marshmallow.”

“I don’t like sweets that can see straight into your soul. Ooh! Creme eggs.”

“John. This is childish.”

“Don’t pretend that you’re not enjoying this, Sherlock.”

He pointed to Sherlock’s tentacles, all eight of which were out, moving amongst the Easter treats. The smallest ones crinkled the pink cellophane and toyed with a pair of rabbit ears attached to a headband. The second smallest petted a soft toy bunny. A third pair investigated a set of paints, and the largest pair held a book aloft. 

John smiled and said, “We’re out of milk, so I’m off to the shops. You have fun with Pete the Cat and the Peeps.”

* * *

Sherlock heard the front door shut.

“Peeps.”

He examined a bright pink chick. Then he bit its head off and chewed.

“Peeps are surprisingly okay.”

As he laid back down on the sofa, four tentacles retracted into his body while four remained extended. The smallest one fed him chicks while the other two tied a pink skipping rope into knots. The largest still held the book, which Sherlock shifted to his hands.

He sighed loudly and opened it.

“ _’Pete the Cat was excited! Easter was here! He couldn’t wait for his basket of goodies. Jellybeans were his favorite_.’ Clearly, this feline has good taste, if a limited—and limiting—number of limbs…”

* * *

“Sherlock! Sherlock!”

Someone was calling his name. No, someone not-John was calling his name. He ignored it.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!”

No, _somethings_ not-John were _cheeping_ his name. Less interesting than real John, of course, but still interesting.

He opened his eyes.

A trio of yellow chicks stared at him. Behind them, the Easter basket was empty save for a rolled sheet of paper tied with red string. Sherlock reached for and unfurled the paper.

 

> _Sherlock,_
> 
> _Please help!_
> 
> _Find the eggs._
> 
> _Paint the eggs._
> 
> _Hide the eggs._
> 
> _Thanks!_
> 
> _The Easter Bunny_
> 
> _P.S. Wear these._

“Is it a skip code?” he mused aloud.

“No, silly!” chirped the chicks. “Look in the basket.”

In the bottom of the basket were the rabbit eared headband.

“Ridiculous! I am not wearing these, and this,” he nodded to the letter, “is nonsense! Who is this Easter Bunny? And what eggs? A trap!”

“Don’t you want to help children have a happy Easter?”

“No.”

The chicks glowed an even brighter yellow. Their dark eyes bore into him.

“WWJWD?” they tweeted.

“What are you? My conscience? A Greek chorus? An unholy amalgamation of the two?”

“WWJWD?” they repeated.

Sherlock snorted. “Not my conscience. It would not misspell the initialism What Would Jesus Do?”

“Jesus? Let’s not bring Jesus into this, Sherlock. It would only muddle the story. What Would John Watson Do? Would he turn his back on someone in need? Would he refuse a cry for help? Would he say ‘no’ to children’s happiness?!”

Sherlock scowled.

“What would John Watson say to a big Easter adventure?” they pressed.

Sherlock bowed his head, all eight tentacles wriggling madly like a Gorgon coiffure, and groaned.

“Oh, God, yes.”

* * *

“Wear the ears!” insisted the chicks.

“Oh, fine!” Sherlock’s tentacles scooped them up and pushed them onto his head.

“Happy?!” he growled.

“A sleuth with ears like a bunny, now that’s funny!”

“Indeed.”

“How about a nose and a tail?”

“No! Shall we get to work?” Sherlock looked at the note. “Find the eggs. Simple. Who has eggs? Chickens. Shops. There are four in the Royal Collection if they aren’t on loan to…”

Sherlock stood up and began to pace. He stopped when he saw three shopping bags on the kitchen table.

“John?”

No answer.

Sherlock peered into the bags.

Milk. Beans. Tea. _Eggs_.

“Two boxes! Hallelujah!” cried the chicks.

Sherlock shot them a cool glance. “I thought we weren’t muddling.”

He removed the eggs from the bag. “First charge complete. Next, paint the eggs. There were…”

He strode back to the sofa. “Ah ha! This is where I am far superior to that four-legged beast, _Pete_. I don’t need to hop to a tool shed for paints. I have them right here.” He removed the pots of paint, which had reappeared in the basket. “And I don’t even _need_ brushes.”

Eight tentacles shot up into the air.

* * *

“’ _Some eggs had one color. Some eggs had two. Some eggs were red. Some eggs were blue_.’ Well, another example of my superiority to this Pete: my eggs are red _and_ blue.”

Sherlock was surrounded by twenty-four purple eggs. The tips of his tentacles were coated with red and blue paint.

“Excellent brushwork. Really, my Vernet is showing. Now, hide the eggs. Not very specific, that.”   

* * *

Sherlock climbed the stairs.

“’ _Pete hid the eggs in flower pots. He hid them in the water spout. And when he was done hiding the eggs, Pete the Cat was all worn out_.’ For once, I empathise with this feline. Hiding eggs is exceedingly tiring. I hope John has made tea.”

When Sherlock strode into the flat, a large white bunny was waiting for him.

“Naturally, I know who you are. Greetings. As the world’s only consulting detective, I am typically called upon to make clear that which is obscure; nevertheless, I rose to the challenge of making obscure that which is a very elegant shade of aubergine. I have worn the ears. I have hidden the eggs. I have, in fact, used all of my not-insignificant mental faculties to conceal the eggs so well that no one—not Scotland Yard nor Interpol nor even John Watson—can find them!”

The bunny blinked. “You hid them so that no one can find them?!”

“I helped!” 

The bunny blinked again. His pink nose twitched. Finally, he shrugged and said,

“Great job! Sherlock, you were a big help! _Helping others out is what Easter is all about!_ ”

“No, appropriation of pagan fecundity rites is what Easter is all about, but you’re welcome.”

The bunny produced a gold and red ribboned medallion and pinned it to Sherlock’s coat.

“You are not a monster, Sherlock. You are _this_.”

Sherlock beamed as his tentacles caressed the centre of the pendant, which read ‘#1 Helper.’

* * *

“Sherlock!”

John was calling his name.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

John was trying not to laugh.

Sherlock followed John’s gaze. A large #1 Helper sticker was affixed to the front of his dressing gown. Four of his tentacles were cuddling the soft toy bunny.  

“It was too cute:  you—with the ears!—asleep with the bunny on the sofa. I couldn’t resist. Stickers came with the book. I took a photo.” He pointed to the book that lay splayed on the floor. “A sleuth with ears like a bunny, now that’s funny!”

“It’s _not_ funny!” retorted Sherlock, sitting up and yanking off the ears.  

“Right." John strode to the kitchen and began emptying the first of four shopping bags. "Sorry I just abandoned the shopping, but I just had the most amazing adventure."

“So did I,” said Sherlock.

“I met a fan of yours.”

“Moriarty?”

“Do you see any Semtex? No.”

“The killer cabbie?”

“Is dead. No.” 

“The Queen?”

“No! And technically, the Queen is my fan. She likes the blog. I mean one of your internet fans, you know, the ones that write stories of us doing filthy things to each other.”

“Well, in all fairness, John—“

“I met one of them. One of them tweeted or twittered or—“

Sherlock’s gaze wandered to the yellow chicks. “Cheeped?”

“Anyway, somehow the message got to me and I couldn’t believe it and you were asleep so I just left the shopping and went to meet them. You’re not going to believe this…”

John reached into the fourth shopping bag.

“Here!” he cried.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He was speechless, but his tentacles flailed wildly.

“It’s a chocolate Sherlock Holmes Easter bunny!”


	2. Easter 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock overdoes on Beatrix Potter stories. Cracky tentacle fluff.

“Ah ha!” exclaimed Sherlock as he shook off the fog of scientific rigour under which he’d been laboring all day and strode into the living room, “The arrival of the Easter candy more than justifies the existence of the minotaur.”

His two thinnest tentacles quickly emerged from the topmost slits in his dressing gown to reach for the cellophane-wrapped basket on the coffee table.

Sherlock studied the basket’s contents whilst his tentacles unlaced the pink and blue ribbons.

“No American confections, so not another cast-off from Stanford, then it must be John. Chocolates, toffees, biscuits, crème eggs marked ‘ _Do not touch. I mean it, Sherlock. These are my favourites!!_ ’ confirms my excellent deduction. No Pete the Cat this year, unfortunately, but rather _The Complete Tales of Peter Rabbit_. Sound, seasonal, if a bit conventional. No jellybeans, alas, or those unsettling PEEPS, but we shall make do all the same,” sighed Sherlock.

He settled himself on the sofa while his eight tentacles went to work unwrapping the basket, they passed the large book to his hands and returned to the basket, pillaging for sweets.

Sherlock hummed, then his largest tentacle tossed an unwrapped chocolate straight into his open mouth.

As Sherlock chewed, he hummed again, then flipped a page and began to read aloud.

“ _Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits_ …”

* * *

“Excuse me, Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock woke with a start.

A brown rabbit was sitting upright on its hind legs before him.

“I found an egg,” said the rabbit, producing a purple egg from the pocket of a too-snug blue jacket with brass buttons.

Sherlock looked from his visitor to an illustration in the book lying open upon his own lap.

“Peter Rabbit,” he said.

The rabbit squeaked, his nose and ears twitching. “How did you know?”

Sherlock gave a gallant wave of the hand.

Then Peter sneezed, and the egg in his paw dropped to floor and cracked. A foul odor suddenly filled the room.

Sherlock frowned. “That is my egg! One of the ones I painted last year for the Easter Bunny.”

The rabbit’s nose continued to twitch nervously.

“But they were hidden so well that no one could find them!” insisted Sherlock.

Peter began to weep. “The note said that I was entitled to one free consultation!” he whined through sniffles.

Sherlock recoiled at the sight of the discombobulating rabbit. “Please, refrain from doing that. Very well. With what do you require my assistance?”

Peter sneezed again. “Do you have any chamomile tea? I have a chronic ague.”

“John does not permit herbal infusions on the premises. The weakest I can offer is a second flush Darjeeling.”

The rabbit gave a jerky nod. “Milky? Sweet?”

“Naturally,” said Sherlock. He rose and went to the kitchen and keeping his back to the hobs, allowed his tentacles to go about the tea-making business whilst he studied his visitor.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Tea?”

“Cookie?” suggested the rabbit, eyeing the basket with no little interest.

“I’m the world’s greatest consulting detective, you found and un-findable Easter egg and your request is a cuppa and a biscuit?!”

The rabbit jumped straight up, then trembled violently as a large, thick tentacle curled around and set cup and saucer upon the kitchen table.

Sherlock waltzed to the basket, retrieved a tin of biscuits from the basket, and begrudgingly dropped two biscuits in the saucer aside the cup.

“I need a new coat,” said Peter, hopping towards the table, then settling himself into a chair. “Perhaps you could suggest a tailor?”

“Try Gloucester,” said Sherlock dryly as a squirrel leapt into the sitting room.

Sherlock was, at once, on edge, having had [a horrific experience ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8728783/chapters/20010337)with a squirrel only two Christmases prior.

The squirrel did not say hello, but began to scamper about the sitting room, launching itself from armchair to sofa and back again with a half-tail whipping behind it like a short flag. It shouted as it raced about,

> _“Riddle me this, riddle me that,_
> 
> _I found an egg buried by a sleuth,_
> 
> _Instead of hid by a cat!_
> 
> _Or a bunny!_
> 
> _now isn’t that funny?”_

A purple egg came hurtling at Sherlock; his tentacle caught it just before it cracked on his forehead.

Sherlock placed the egg in the refrigerator and turned to see the squirrel springing thither and hither, but mostly thither.

It knocked the Easter basket over. Sweets and other packaged delicacies spilled onto the table; some cascaded to the floor. The squirrel chattered as it jumped.

> _“A man like a squid_
> 
> _Cannot be rid_
> 
> _Of the ink in his sink_
> 
> _Or the stink in his think_
> 
> _Or the mink in his wink_
> 
> _Or the chink in his blink—“_

“What can I do for you, Mister Nutkin?” interrupted Sherlock. “I believe I owe you a consultation as reward for finding the egg.”

Nutkin stopped, his body was perfectly still, but his stub tail still quivered. He cocked his small head to one side and said,

“I need a birthday gift for my brother Twinkleberry. Any ideas? Maybe a puzzle or a jump rope or a set of paints—“

“Nuts,” said Sherlock.

“Nuts,” echoed Peter, raising his head. “Might I have a spoon?”

Sherlock huffed.

One tentacle wrenched open a drawer; another tossed a teaspoon upon the table. Peter picked the spoon up and began to sip his tea from it.

Nutkin bounced upon a small packet on the sitting room rug and held it up triumphantly.

“Mixed nuts!”

“Now see here,” said Sherlock, advancing on the squirrel. “John quite likes cashews—.”

Sherlock was halted by an army of mice filing in from the stairs. They carried a single purple egg on their collective backs. They placed the egg gently on the rug, then continued to march into the kitchen, stomping around and between Sherlock’s legs, chanting,

“No more twist! No more twist! No more twist!”

“Here are your tailors, Mister Rabbit,” said Sherlock. He glanced over at Nutkin, who had ripped into the packet of mixed nuts and was munching greedily. “Hey, stop! The deal was a consultation! I’m a detective! And you’re a cheeky little—”

The chanting from below grew louder.

“No more twist! No more twist! No more twist!”

“CAN I HELP YOU?” cried Sherlock, looking down at the whiskered throng.

“We quit!” the mice shouted. “No more tailoring! No more button-holes! No more coats and vests lined with yellow taffeta and, most of all, no more twist!”

“What do you want to do?” asked Sherlock.

“Go on the stage,” they said.

“All of you?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes!” they cried.

“Excuse me?” said a small voice.

Sherlock looked up. “John, is that you?”

“No, no if you please, sir, my name is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh yes if you please, sir, I’m an excellent clean-starcher, and I found this,” the hedgehog unfurled her apron to reveal a purple egg, “in a pocket-handkin!”

“What’s your question?” growled Sherlock, all his tentacles were extended, squirming with frustration.

“I would like to know what is the best method for removing kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding stain from a moleskin waist-coat? I’ve always thought that you first, but Tabitha Twitchit says you must—“

“Downstairs!” growled Sherlock.                                                                                                            

“Excuse me?” asked Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

“All laundry questions should be directed to Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. She’s a specialist.”

“Oh, well, yes, well.”

“Downstairs! Thank you!”

The hedgehog hesitated at the top of the stairs. “The first floor?” she asked.

“Might I have another cup?” asked Peter.

“Got any more nuts?” asked Nutkin, licking the salt from his paws and leaping sideways.

“Good day!” called Sherlock to the hedgehog, who was caught squarely on the side of the head by the leaping Nutkin. The two fell to the floor in a squabbling, squeaking, cheeky, apologetic heap.

“No,” said Sherlock to the sneezing rabbit.

“No,” said Sherlock to the screeching squirrel.

“Stop stabbing my ankle with a bodkin,” said Sherlock to the mice, who had commenced an improvised performance of Hamlet at his feet.

“’ _O, I am slain!’_ ” cried a tiny voice below.

“Hey, uh, you Holmes?” said a rough voice.

“Benjamin!” called Peter.

“Hey, Peter. What’s up? So I got this egg, Mister Holmes.”

“Benjamin Bunny,” said Sherlock. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and closed his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s right. Peter’s my cousin.”

“And what can I do for you?” asked Sherlock wearily.

“Lettuce.”

Sherlock bolted upright, then glanced at the refrigerator door. “I haven’t any lettuce.”

“Cabbage,” said the rabbit, who wore a very large tam-o-shanter. “Greens. Moo-lah-lah. _Dinero_ as the burros say.”

“Benjamin!” cried Peter. “No!”

“Cash,” said Benjamin, ignoring Peter.

Sherlock frowned. “Green money. First floor. A vest. A jump rope. A cookie.” His eyes widened and he charged Benjamin Bunny. Eight tentacles and two hands gripped two long ears.

And ripped.

“YOU AREN’T BELOVED ANIMALS OF THE ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE! YOU’RE PEEPS!” roared Sherlock.

The rabbit head lay limp in Sherlock’s hands, and black beaded eyes glare back at him.

“Very clever, Sherlock.”

All the visitors shed their animal disguises at once, and the room was suddenly full of bright yellow marshmallow chicks, four large ones in front of Sherlock and many small ones on the floor.

“Get out!” ordered Sherlock. “You give John nightmares. And I’m not overly fond of you either.”

“You can’t get rid of us, Sherlock. Nothing destroys us. We’re like cockroaches or nuclear waste—“

“There is one way.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “For John.”

“No!” cried the chick in the tam-o-shanter. “Nobody actually _eats_ us.”

Sherlock bit its yellow head off.

* * *

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned.

“John. I had a horrible dream. I’m sick.”

“Not surprised on either count. You put yourself in a sugar coma, but thank you for sparing the crème eggs.”

Sherlock glanced over at the Easter basket, which was wholly ravaged save for a trio of chocolate eggs. Then he sat up and groaned again and brushed all the sweets wrappers from his chest. The book on the floor caught his eye.

“Do you like Beatrix Potter stories, John?”

John shrugged. “Talking animals. A bit suspect.”

“Indeed, but,” Sherlock stomach turned, “might I have some chamomile tea like Peter Rabbit after the lettuces, French beans, radishes, etcetera?”

John’s eyebrows rose, but he went to the kitchen without a word and the distinct sound of deep-cupboard rummaging was soon heard.

“Ah ha!” cried John triumphantly.

“John, you didn’t get any PEEPS, did you?”

“Christ, no! I didn’t even get any jellybeans. Or that American so-called chocolate. Bleh.”

“Good. Then you shall have bread and milk and blackberries for supper,” said Sherlock, leaning back on the sofa and smiling.

“I love you, too, Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
